And Coyote nearly burst out laughing, so sharp was the shock of relief.
Admiral Magruder looked at the hard copy of the comsat from Bushmaster and swore. The situation ashore, it seemed, was rapidly getting out of hand.
The message had not mentioned who it was that had escaped from the North Korean army camp ― coding and the need to keep burst transmissions short precluded such mundane chit-chat ― but it sounded to Magruder as though the man must be one of the spooks, someone with James Bond-style delusions. He could well have wrecked everything by alerting the North Koreans to Bushmaster's presence. As it was, the SEALs must be going into deep hiding to avoid enemy search parties.
On the other hand, the information was certainly timely. If TF-18 was going to do anything, it would have to act now, this night… or watch Chimera's crew whisked forever out of reach.
"Ron?"
An aide snapped to attention. "Yes, Admiral!"
He handed him the message. "Copies of this to Admiral Simpson and Colonel Caruso. And Captain Fitzgerald."
"Yes, sir."
"And fire up TAC COM. Priority CRITIC."
"Aye aye, sir." Americans were being shot over there. Damn!
He wondered what the Washington appeasers and negotiators would think of this. If they didn't get their asses in gear now…
The President looked at the copy of the message relayed from Admiral Magruder and felt the weight of his office pressing down on him. He looked up, his eyes meeting Schellenberg's. "So, Jim, we're going to negotiate with these people? Sit down and talk things out?" He felt his blood pressure rising. He closed his fist and smashed it down on the table. "My God! Three of our sailors murdered in cold blood… and we're going to negotiate with them sometime next week?"
"I… don't have an answer, Mr. President. Possibly there are communication problems between P'yongyang and Nyongch'on."
"Communications problems." He sighed and looked away. The others watched him anxiously from around the table.
Caldwell licked his lips. "Sir, we can't deploy through South Korea before-"
"Not an option, General. Not now. The point is to get our people back, and if they're in P'yongyang…" He shrugged. "They might as well be on the moon. Hell, I think they'd be easier to reach on the moon! I cannot go before Congress or the American people and justify starting up the Korean War all over again for…" He let the words trail off. Where was the moral line in the dust across which an American President could step while balancing American lives against the risk of war? Would he commit combat troops to save two hundred men? For ten? For one?
The same decision had been faced time and time again by the White House, and the answer had never been clear-cut. Gerald Ford had sent the Marines into Cambodia to free the Mayaguez, sacrificing forty-one dead to rescue thirty-nine American merchant seamen. The Marines hadn't complained at the time. They would have said that putting their lives on the line to preserve American lives and property was their job.
But the guy who sent them in had some major questions to settle in his own mind first. When is the use of troops as an expression of U.S. foreign policy justified?
He turned to one of the aides hovering in the background. "Get me a direct line to Admiral Magruder."
No one spoke. No one met the President's eyes, knowing that the time for advisors ― and for debate ― was past. The silence lay heavy in the room as technicians worked to patch through to the Jefferson directly, each man, for the moment, alone with his thoughts. The President thought about Admiral Magruder. He'd never met the man, but the speed with which he'd assembled a workable operational plan earlier during the crisis spoke well of him, and of the efficiency of those under him.
The minutes dragged by. Getting a working communications linkup and going with a spot halfway around the globe was not always as simple as dialing long distance.
"Mr. President?" The aide extended a telephone handset. "Admiral Magruder, TF-18. It's scrambled."
He raised the receiver to his ear. "Admiral Magruder, this is the President."
"Good morning, Mr. President." The line was scratchy with static, but the admiral's voice was firm and distinct.
The President glanced up at the clock showing Tokyo time. It was evening in the Sea of Japan. "Admiral, do you feel that Operation Righteous Thunder, as currently planned, has a chance to succeed?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "If we move fast, yes, sir. We have a good chance."
"It's a big operation. Things could go wrong."
"Things always go wrong, Mr. President. We just have to allow for it in the plan."
"And your recommendation is…?"
"That we go for it, sir." Static crackled on the line. "My God, Mr. President, they're shooting our people in there. If we have the chance to pull them out, we'd damn well better take it."
"If things go wrong, we could lose a lot of people."
"And if we do nothing, Mr. President, the hostages could all die."
"Yes." The President looked across the table at the others, cabinet members and advisors. He felt quite alone. "Yes, of course. Admiral, please hold."
The President depressed the privacy button on the handset. "Gentlemen, I have no other option." He expected protest, but got none. Caldwell nodded slowly. Schellenberg stared at his hands, folded on the tabletop before him.
He released the button. "Admiral, I'm giving you a conditional go on Righteous Thunder."
"Conditional, Mr. President?"
"I'm putting the ball back in your court. I have no choice but to order a military response to this situation. If you believe that you have a chance of securing the release of Chimera's crew before they are moved ― if the level of risk is acceptable in your opinion ― then you have my authorization to go in."
"Yes, sir."
He locked eyes with Caldwell as he continued. "If you do not move on your own, we will begin mounting a major military response out of South Korea, probably within two days." He hesitated. Schellenberg was still not meeting his gaze.
"I understand, Mr. President." A burst of static hissed over the line.
"Good luck, Admiral." He handed the phone back to the waiting aide.
"Mr. President-" the Secretary of State began.
"Not now, Jim." The President pressed his hands over his eyes. "Gentlemen, we're committed. Possibly to a new war with North Korea."
"Do you think Magruder has a chance?" Hall asked.
"If he does, God knows he'll have a better crack at it if we're not trying to run things from here. Magruder's a good man. All we can do now is delegate and pray."
Abruptly, the President stood up, eliciting a flurry of squeaking chairs as the others did so as well. "And now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have to go work out what I'm going to tell the American people." And what he would tell the wives and families later. There would be body bags coming home from this one. How many, only God knew.
Admiral Magruder replaced the phone in its cradle. Captain Fitzgerald stood beside him, hands on hips. "They bought it?"
He nodded. "It's a go." Magruder took a deep breath. His heart was hammering in his chest as hard as it ever had during any carrier landing. He was under no illusions about the limits of the authority that had just been handed to him. If Righteous Thunder failed, not even the President would be able to save his career. He would be the admiral who'd tried ― and botched it.